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Chapter 16


I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which
followed this sleepless night:  I wanted to hear his voice again,
yet feared to meet his eye.  During the early part of the morning, I
momentarily expected his coming; he was not in the frequent habit of
entering the schoolroom, but he did step in for a few minutes
sometimes, and I had the impression that he was sure to visit it
that day.

But the morning passed just as usual:  nothing happened to interrupt
the quiet course of Adele's studies; only soon after breakfast, I
heard some bustle in the neighbourhood of Mr. Rochester's chamber,
Mrs. Fairfax's voice, and Leah's, and the cook's--that is, John's
wife--and even John's own gruff tones.  There were exclamations of
"What a mercy master was not burnt in his bed!"  "It is always
dangerous to keep a candle lit at night."  "How providential that he
had presence of mind to think of the water-jug!"  "I wonder he waked
nobody!"  "It is to be hoped he will not take cold with sleeping on
the library sofa," &c.

To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to
rights; and when I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner, I
saw through the open door that all was again restored to complete
order; only the bed was stripped of its hangings.  Leah stood up in
the window-seat, rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke.  I
was about to address her, for I wished to know what account had been
given of the affair:  but, on advancing, I saw a second person in
the chamber--a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside, and sewing
rings to new curtains.  That woman was no other than Grace Poole.

There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in her brown
stuff gown, her check apron, white handkerchief, and cap.  She was
intent on her work, in which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed:  on
her hard forehead, and in her commonplace features, was nothing
either of the paleness or desperation one would have expected to see
marking the countenance of a woman who had attempted murder, and
whose intended victim had followed her last night to her lair, and
(as I believed), charged her with the crime she wished to
perpetrate.  I was amazed--confounded.  She looked up, while I still
gazed at her:  no start, no increase or failure of colour betrayed
emotion, consciousness of guilt, or fear of detection.  She said
"Good morning, Miss," in her usual phlegmatic and brief manner; and
taking up another ring and more tape, went on with her sewing.

"I will put her to some test," thought I:  "such absolute
impenetrability is past comprehension."

"Good morning, Grace," I said.  "Has anything happened here?  I
thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago."

"Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he fell asleep
with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately,
he awoke before the bed-clothes or the wood-work caught, and
contrived to quench the flames with the water in the ewer.

"A strange affair!" I said, in a low voice:  then, looking at her
fixedly--"Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody?  Did no one hear him move?"

She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something
of consciousness in their expression.  She seemed to examine me
warily; then she answered -

"The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be
likely to hear.  Mrs. Fairfax's room and yours are the nearest to
master's; but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing:  when people get
elderly, they often sleep heavy."  She paused, and then added, with
a sort of assumed indifference, but still in a marked and
significant tone--"But you are young, Miss; and I should say a light
sleeper:  perhaps you may have heard a noise?"

"I did," said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still
polishing the panes, could not hear me, "and at first I thought it
was Pilot:  but Pilot cannot laugh; and I am certain I heard a
laugh, and a strange one."

She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her
needle with a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure

"It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when
he was in such danger:  You must have been dreaming."

"I was not dreaming," I said, with some warmth, for her brazen
coolness provoked me.  Again she looked at me; and with the same
scrutinising and conscious eye.

"Have you told master that you heard a laugh?" she inquired.

"I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning."

"You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the
gallery?" she further asked.

She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from me
information unawares.  The idea struck me that if she discovered I
knew or suspected her guilt, she would be playing of some of her
malignant pranks on me; I thought it advisable to be on my guard.

"On the contrary," said I, "I bolted my door."

"Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night
before you get into bed?"

"Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans
accordingly!"  Indignation again prevailed over prudence:  I replied
sharply, "Hitherto I have often omitted to fasten the bolt:  I did
not think it necessary.  I was not aware any danger or annoyance was
to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall:  but in future" (and I laid marked
stress on the words) "I shall take good care to make all secure
before I venture to lie down."

"It will be wise so to do," was her answer:  "this neighbourhood is
as quiet as any I know, and I never heard of the hall being
attempted by robbers since it was a house; though there are hundreds
of pounds' worth of plate in the plate-closet, as is well known.
And you see, for such a large house, there are very few servants,
because master has never lived here much; and when he does come,
being a bachelor, he needs little waiting on:  but I always think it
best to err on the safe side; a door is soon fastened, and it is as
well to have a drawn bolt between one and any mischief that may be
about.  A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all to Providence;
but I say Providence will not dispense with the means, though He
often blesses them when they are used discreetly."  And here she
closed her harangue:  a long one for her, and uttered with the
demureness of a Quakeress.

I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her
miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the
cook entered.

"Mrs. Poole," said she, addressing Grace, "the servants' dinner will
soon be ready:  will you come down?"

"No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and
I'll carry it upstairs."

"You'll have some meat?"

"Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that's all."

"And the sago?"

"Never mind it at present:  I shall be coming down before teatime:
I'll make it myself."

The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was waiting for
me:  so I departed.

I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax's account of the curtain conflagration
during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the
enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering
the problem of her position at Thornfield and questioning why she
had not been given into custody that morning, or, at the very least,
dismissed from her master's service.  He had almost as much as
declared his conviction of her criminality last night:  what
mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her?  Why had he
enjoined me, too, to secrecy?  It was strange:  a bold, vindictive,
and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the
meanest of his dependants; so much in her power, that even when she
lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge her
with the attempt, much less punish her for it.

Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to
think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr.
Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was,
the idea could not be admitted.  "Yet," I reflected, "she has been
young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master's:  Mrs.
Fairfax told me once, she had lived here many years.  I don't think
she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she may
possess originality and strength of character to compensate for the
want of personal advantages.  Mr. Rochester is an amateur of the
decided and eccentric:  Grace is eccentric at least.  What if a
former caprice (a freak very possible to a nature so sudden and
headstrong as his) has delivered him into her power, and she now
exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own
indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?"
But, having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole's square,
flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so
distinctly to my mind's eye, that I thought, "No; impossible! my
supposition cannot be correct.  Yet," suggested the secret voice
which talks to us in our own hearts, "you are not beautiful either,
and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you:  at any rate, you have often
felt as if he did; and last night--remember his words; remember his
look; remember his voice!"

I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the
moment vividly renewed.  I was now in the schoolroom; Adele was
drawing; I bent over her and directed her pencil.  She looked up
with a sort of start.

"Qu' avez-vous, mademoiselle?" said she.  "Vos doigts tremblent
comme la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges:  mais, rouges comme des

"I am hot, Adele, with stooping!"  She went on sketching; I went on

I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been
conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me.  I compared
myself with her, and found we were different.  Bessie Leaven had
said I was quite a lady; and she spoke truth--I was a lady.  And now
I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me; I had more
colour and more flesh, more life, more vivacity, because I had
brighter hopes and keener enjoyments.

"Evening approaches," said I, as I looked towards the window.  "I
have never heard Mr. Rochester's voice or step in the house to-day;
but surely I shall see him before night:  I feared the meeting in
the morning; now I desire it, because expectation has been so long
baffled that it is grown impatient."

When dusk actually closed, and when Adele left me to go and play in
the nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it.  I listened
for the bell to ring below; I listened for Leah coming up with a
message; I fancied sometimes I heard Mr. Rochester's own tread, and
I turned to the door, expecting it to open and admit him.  The door
remained shut; darkness only came in through the window.  Still it
was not late; he often sent for me at seven and eight o'clock, and
it was yet but six.  Surely I should not be wholly disappointed to-
night, when I had so many things to say to him!  I wanted again to
introduce the subject of Grace Poole, and to hear what he would
answer; I wanted to ask him plainly if he really believed it was she
who had made last night's hideous attempt; and if so, why he kept
her wickedness a secret.  It little mattered whether my curiosity
irritated him; I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by
turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in, and a sure instinct always
prevented me from going too far; beyond the verge of provocation I
never ventured; on the extreme brink I liked well to try my skill.
Retaining every minute form of respect, every propriety of my
station, I could still meet him in argument without fear or uneasy
restraint; this suited both him and me.

A tread creaked on the stairs at last.  Leah made her appearance;
but it was only to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs. Fairfax's
room.  Thither I repaired, glad at least to go downstairs; for that
brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr. Rochester's presence.

"You must want your tea," said the good lady, as I joined her; "you
ate so little at dinner.  I am afraid," she continued, "you are not
well to-day:  you look flushed and feverish."

"Oh, quite well!  I never felt better."

"Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will you fill
the teapot while I knit off this needle?"  Having completed her
task, she rose to draw down the blind, which she had hitherto kept
up, by way, I suppose, of making the most of daylight, though dusk
was now fast deepening into total obscurity.

"It is fair to-night," said she, as she looked through the panes,
"though not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the whole, had a
favourable day for his journey."

"Journey!--Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere?  I did not know he was

"Oh, he set of the moment he had breakfasted!  He is gone to the
Leas, Mr. Eshton's place, ten miles on the other side Millcote.  I
believe there is quite a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir
George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and others."

"Do you expect him back to-night?"

"No--nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay
a week or more:  when these fine, fashionable people get together,
they are so surrounded by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with
all that can please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate.
Gentlemen especially are often in request on such occasions; and Mr.
Rochester is so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he
is a general favourite:  the ladies are very fond of him; though you
would not think his appearance calculated to recommend him
particularly in their eyes:  but I suppose his acquirements and
abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood, make amends for any
little fault of look."

"Are there ladies at the Leas?"

"There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters--very elegant young
ladies indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram,
most beautiful women, I suppose:  indeed I have seen Blanche, six or
seven years since, when she was a girl of eighteen.  She came here
to a Christmas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave.  You should have
seen the dining-room that day--how richly it was decorated, how
brilliantly lit up!  I should think there were fifty ladies and
gentlemen present--all of the first county families; and Miss Ingram
was considered the belle of the evening."

"You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax:  what was she like?"

"Yes, I saw her.  The dining-room doors were thrown open; and, as it
was Christmas-time, the servants were allowed to assemble in the
hall, to hear some of the ladies sing and play.  Mr. Rochester would
have me to come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched
them.  I never saw a more splendid scene:  the ladies were
magnificently dressed; most of them--at least most of the younger
ones--looked handsome; but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen."

"And what was she like?"

"Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck:  olive
complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather like Mr.
Rochester's:  large and black, and as brilliant as her jewels.  And
then she had such a fine head of hair; raven-black and so becomingly
arranged:  a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest,
the glossiest curls I ever saw.  She was dressed in pure white; an
amber-coloured scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her
breast, tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below
her knee.  She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her hair:  it
contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls."

"She was greatly admired, of course?"

"Yes, indeed:  and not only for her beauty, but for her
accomplishments.  She was one of the ladies who sang:  a gentleman
accompanied her on the piano.  She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet."

"Mr. Rochester?  I was not aware he could sing."

"Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for music."

"And Miss Ingram:  what sort of a voice had she?"

"A very rich and powerful one:  she sang delightfully; it was a
treat to listen to her;--and she played afterwards.  I am no judge
of music, but Mr. Rochester is; and I heard him say her execution
was remarkably good."

"And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet married?"

"It appears not:  I fancy neither she nor her sister have very large
fortunes.  Old Lord Ingram's estates were chiefly entailed, and the
eldest son came in for everything almost."

"But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to
her:  Mr. Rochester, for instance.  He is rich, is he not?"

"Oh! yes.  But you see there is a considerable difference in age:
Mr. Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five."

"What of that?  More unequal matches are made every day."

"True:  yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would entertain an
idea of the sort.  But you eat nothing:  you have scarcely tasted
since you began tea."

"No:  I am too thirsty to eat.  Will you let me have another cup?"

I was about again to revert to the probability of a union between
Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but Adele came in, and the
conversation was turned into another channel.

When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked
into my heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, and endeavoured
to bring back with a strict hand such as had been straying through
imagination's boundless and trackless waste, into the safe fold of
common sense.

Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her evidence of the
hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cherishing since last night--of
the general state of mind in which I had indulged for nearly a
fortnight past; Reason having come forward and told, in her own
quiet way a plain, unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the
real, and rabidly devoured the ideal;--I pronounced judgment to this

That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the breath of
life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeited herself on
sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were nectar.

"YOU," I said, "a favourite with Mr. Rochester?  YOU gifted with the
power of pleasing him?  YOU of importance to him in any way?  Go!
your folly sickens me.  And you have derived pleasure from
occasional tokens of preference--equivocal tokens shown by a
gentleman of family and a man of the world to a dependent and a
novice.  How dared you?  Poor stupid dupe!--Could not even self-
interest make you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the
brief scene of last night?--Cover your face and be ashamed!  He said
something in praise of your eyes, did he?  Blind puppy!  Open their
bleared lids and look on your own accursed senselessness!  It does
good to no woman to be flattered by her superior, who cannot
possibly intend to marry her; and it is madness in all women to let
a secret love kindle within them, which, if unreturned and unknown,
must devour the life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded
to, must lead, ignis-fatus-like, into miry wilds whence there is no

"Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence:  tomorrow, place the
glass before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully,
without softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no
displeasing irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess,
disconnected, poor, and plain.'

"Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory--you have one prepared in
your drawing-box:  take your palette, mix your freshest, finest,
clearest tints; choose your most delicate camel-hair pencils;
delineate carefully the loveliest face you can imagine; paint it in
your softest shades and sweetest lines, according to the description
given by Mrs. Fairfax of Blanche Ingram; remember the raven
ringlets, the oriental eye;--What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a
model!  Order!  No snivel!--no sentiment!--no regret!  I will endure
only sense and resolution.  Recall the august yet harmonious
lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and dazzling
arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither diamond ring nor
gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire, aerial lace and
glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden rose; call it 'Blanche,
an accomplished lady of rank.'

"Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr. Rochester
thinks well of you, take out these two pictures and compare them:
say, 'Mr. Rochester might probably win that noble lady's love, if he
chose to strive for it; is it likely he would waste a serious
thought on this indigent and insignificant plebeian?'"

"I'll do it," I resolved:  and having framed this determination, I
grew calm, and fell asleep.

I kept my word.  An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait
in crayons; and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory
miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram.  It looked a lovely face
enough, and when compared with the real head in chalk, the contrast
was as great as self-control could desire.  I derived benefit from
the task:  it had kept my head and hands employed, and had given
force and fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp
indelibly on my heart.

Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of
wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to
submit.  Thanks to it, I was able to meet subsequent occurrences
with a decent calm, which, had they found me unprepared, I should
probably have been unequal to maintain, even externally.

Charlotte Bronte